


green gives way to brown

by amaresu



Category: Mother of the Crows - Seanan McGuire (Song)
Genre: Gen, Horror, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-02-19 04:54:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13116465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amaresu/pseuds/amaresu
Summary: The crows caw in the field.  The blood drips between your fingers.It's too late to save yourself, but the crows are there if you can reach them.





	green gives way to brown

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tsukara (AndThenTheresAnne)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndThenTheresAnne/gifts).



> I don't think the violence is overly graphic, but better safe than sorry on that front.
> 
> You mentioned a Nope list, but never updated your Yuletide Letter Placeholder so I have no idea what was on that list and I grabbed your prompt off the pitch hit list last minute so I didn't have time to ask. Hopefully nothing really hits on that. If it does I'm very sorry.
> 
> Thanks for letting me write a second person horror story for Yuletide! It's my favorite thing to do for Yuletide.

You hold your stomach as you stumble out the door, slick blood leaking between your fingers. It's too late now, much too late. Too late for anything but running and praying. You can hear the crows rustling in the fields behind the barn, cawing to themselves as they settle in for the night. You stumble in the half-light of twilight and gasp in pain as you try to maintain your feet and move towards those same crows. With a harried look back at the lights of the house behind you hope no one has noticed you gone yet. As much as it pains you to think it you have to hope they are still busying themselves with your mother. There is only so much time and you are so weak already.

It's quiet in the dark, the only noise coming from the crows. There should be the bark of the dogs and the rustle of the horses. You know what they did to the dogs when they came up to the house, you watched them from the window of your bedroom before running to your sister. You fear what they did to the horses. You don't look into the barn, you don't go for anything in there that could be a weapon. It's too late for that. The blood drips between your fingers as you stumble along the path leading towards the corn. 

The crows call out to you as you make it past the first stalks. 

Behind you the door of the house slams and feet start running down the steps. You can feel your breath pick up in panic, but you make yourself keep moving. You have the lead and you know the corn. You know the crows and the way the stalks twist and turn. Even if you don't make it, don't find the maze and the mother of crows, each step they follow is a step away from your sister. 

You remember a distant dream, or memory, from childhood. Walking past the stalks by yourself, following the call of the crows and finding the first steps of the maze. You remember the way your mother had grabbed your arm before you could step along, warning you of the days of the harvest as October faded into November. There are prices that can be paid as winter winds blow and you pray to the mother of crows to guide your feet to that maze once more.

Behind you a cry comes up as they find your blood on the ground. You've lost so much it's hard to keep moving, to keep from panicking, to keep running towards the cawing of the crows. You stumble and fall, letting out a cry that is heard by those behind you. You can hear them picking up their pace, you can hear the awful things they call out to you, but you can also see the crow that's sitting on the ground in front of you. It caws and tilts it's head before hopping backwards a foot and cawing again.

They are coming and standing up is too much to ask, but you can crawl. You can crawl for your mother and the blood that painted the living room. You can crawl for your little sister hidden in the attic. You can follow the crow and hope that you have enough blood left to pay the price. You push the sounds to the back of your mind, either they catch you or they don't. You can only focus on following the crow, one agonizing foot at a time, hands clawing at the dirt to pull yourself forward.

It's full dark by the time you reach the clearing, the stalks of corn twisted in a way your father never planned or designed. The crows are perched on ancient scarecrows planted in the field, nothing anyone in your family ever made. You don't have anything left, but still you risk one last glance behind you and see the twisting passages of the maze behind you and hear the distant calls of your pursuers. They are lost in the corn, lost as the cold and the dark descends and you might be able to save what can be saved.

It's too much to talk instead you reach out to the crow that seems to be the center of the murder. She's larger then the rest and her feathers are so black they seem to reflect what little light there is shining down from the late harvest moon just rising over the horizon. Your hand drips blood as you reach out to her, the mother of the crows, and she flies down to you. She perches on your arm and brings her beak to your face. There is only the price to pay, you know it the same as you know your father will blame himself when he returns to your house. 

The stories your mother told you speak of prices and laws and the power of stories. Laying in your own blood you willing pay the price, not even crying out as the beak goes for your eyes. You can feel the frost coming up as the light is gone forever. It curls up into your limbs and last thing you hear is the sound of hundreds of wings taking flight. They will stop those who came into your home. The mother of crows has accepted your payment and gone to take your revenge.

As you lay in the dirt and chaff, the smell of loam filling your nose, you imagine you can see. You imagine you can fly over the corn, leaving the maze behind. In your mind you see the crows descend on the men in the corn the way the men had descended on your mother. The way they'd tried to take you. It's a good dream of your dying mind, watching the crows tear the men apart. The sounds of their pain and anger as the crows take your revenge drift across the corn and you smile to listen to it even as everything grows cold.

Laying in the center of the maze, beneath the scarecrows, and the promise of the mother of crow's revenge ringing in your ears you close your sightless eyes for the last time. Your father will come home and find your sister, still alive and scared in the attic, but alive. The police will find the remains of your attackers in the corn. 

Their blood will feed the corn in coming years and the crows will eat their fill.


End file.
